


The Heart of Christmas: a Bridget Jones Fic

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5454536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the still fresh loss of her father, Bridget wants Billy's first Christmas to be special, but like everything else she does, she creates more mayhem than merryment until Mark saves the day...and Bridget's sanity. Book universe, but with a special appearance from a certain winter garment. *Una wink*</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart of Christmas: a Bridget Jones Fic

**Author's Note:**

> we don't really have a backstory for the Tiffany heart that Bridget wears in the films, so I've sort of invented one here. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas!

The Heart of Christmas: a Bridget Jones Fic  
by Eggsbenni221  
Words: 4441  
Rating: T  
Summary: despite the still fresh loss of her father, Bridget wants Billy's first Christmas to be special, but like everything else she does, she creates more mayhem than merryment until Mark saves the day...and Bridget's sanity. Book universe, but with a special appearance from a certain winter garment. *Una wink*

Disclaimer: Not my characters...or my jumper. Merry Christmas!

Author's note: we don't really have a backstory for the Tiffany heart that Bridget wears in the films, so I've sort of invented one here. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas!

  


22 December

  
Weight: no bloody clue. Have decided against weighing self till after the New Year anyway as increased chocolate consumption interferes with accuracy.  
Calories: 1 million (approx.).  
Alcohol units 0 (saint-like, but troubling. Not feeling at all like self).  
4.30 PM: Christmas fast approaching in manner of oncoming freight train that cannot avoid. Wish could simply cancel entire thing and bury self under covers till it’s all over. Feel horribly empty inside thinking about first Christmas without Dad, as if someone’s gone and plucked my heart right from my chest and left this ugly, gaping hole behind. Yet it’s also Billy’s first Christmas, so must put on brave face in manner of Christmas elf or similar and make everything jolly and bright.  
Tom says not to worry, that Billy’s too young to really take any of it in—something about infantile amnesia. Am convinced, however, that if I don’t give my son a perfect Christmas, next thing I know some hoity-toity child psychologist will publish a study linking criminal behavior in adult males with deprivation of warm, fluffy holiday memories. Will be all my fault if Billy grows up to be a mad axe-murderer, for not giving him a proper Christmas straight out of Charles Dickens. Hate bloody Dickens with his Christmas geese and his plumb puddings and his Tiny Tim blessing all and sundry. ‘Ooo, look at me! I’ve found the true meaning of Christmas! Tralalala!’

Mark has been absolutely wonderful, doing all Christmas shopping, and getting the tree, and generally doing his best to spread Christmas cheer despite, or perhaps because of my obvious lack of enthusiasm.  
“I know we’ve got to make a bit of an effort, for Billy,” I said last weekend while Billy attempted to snatch the string of Christmas lights I wound absently around one hand as Mark nudged the tree into place. “But honestly, I don’t know if I have what it takes to make a fuss over it all this year.” For answer, Mark crossed the room and wrapped me in his arms. He touched his lips to mine before planting a kiss on the top of Billy’s head. (Love when he does this. Feel all warm and gooey in manner of insides being full of marshmallows and hot chocolate or similar. Love Mark).  
“I know it’s hard,” he whispered. “But we’re together. We have each other, and it’s not wrong to find joy in that, even while you’re grieving.” (Love Mark).  
Still, finding it all so hard to face; without Mark to hold me together, or Billy to care for and play with and smile for, suspect I’d just hibernate indefinitely. Have just got to keep buggering on though, I suppose.  
As understanding as Mark has been, I think he’s also begun to lose his patience, and I don’t suppose I blame him; he’s had to generate enough Christmas cheer for the both of us, and I think he’s running out of fairy dust. He found me huddled beneath blankets on the sofa with Billy when he arrived home from work early today, blinking back tears after a conversation with Mum. Had actually been having a perfectly lovely day, watching Christmas movies on the telly and taking Billy outside to look at the snow. Loved watching him flailing his tiny baby fists as he tried to catch snowflakes, and when they began to stick to his lashes, started dancing him around the back garden singing “My Favorite Things” in manner of Julie Andrews until we were both giggling madly. Then came back inside to get warm and instead felt block of ice settling in stomach when the phone rang.  
“Hello, darling! How are you?”  
“Super, Mum,” I said mechanically.  
“Wonderful! Well, I just wanted to remind you that I’m still planning to come for Christmas.” (She’s been reminding me constantly for the past month, since she invited herself… or I invited her… or mark did. At any rate, she’s coming, and I’m about as prepared for her visit as I’d be for a visit from the Abominable Snow Monster). Not that I don’t want to see her; she’s my mother, and I wouldn’t abandon her at Christmas, obvs. Is not as if am completely heartless daughter. Dad wouldn’t want—no. don’t think about Dad. Took the phone away from my ear, just to have a moment to clear my head; of course, when I replaced it, Mum was still chattering away.  
“Nothing fancy,” she was saying, “but we’ll have the turkey, of course, and I don’t know—do you think…”  
“Mum,” I interrupted, hit with a sudden inspiration, “maybe we can have Christmas lunch at a restaurant this year. You know, make things easier. No fuss.”  
“Nonsense, Bridget! No fuss, indeed. Christmas lunch at a restaurant? What would your father say?” I felt my eyes burn.  
‘Probably that anything that doesn’t drive me mad would suit him just fine,’ I thought, but naturally said nothing because, well, Mum still jabbering like chipmunk that had overdosed on caffeine.  
“Mum, do you think you could just… stop talking?”  
“And a nice Christmas pudding and…”  
“Mum! Can you just shut up, please?”  
“Bridget! Really! What language!”  
I sighed. “I’m sorry, Mum. I just… I can’t deal with this right now.”  
“Really, Bridget,” Mum said sternly; suddenly felt about 5 years-old in spite of the fact that my own uterus has just done the seemingly impossible and expelled an entire human being whom it’s my responsibility to feed and clothe and love for the next 18 years. “You aren’t the only one who misses your father.”  
“I know, Mum,” I whispered, my eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t.”  
“I’m just trying to keep our spirits up.”  
“I know, Mum, but everything’s just too overwhelming. Do you think maybe we can just try to enjoy being together? Let’s just keep everything simple. Please.” a long, awkward silence followed my words.  
“Well, of course, dear,” Mum murmured finally. “If that’s what you want.”  
“Good. Super. So…”  
“Oh, must wiz now, dumpling. I’ve got to finish wrapping presents. Byee!”  
Billy had been snuggled in my lap during the conversation, twisting the ends of his blanket in his fingers and gazing calmly up at me in a way that reminded me so much of Mark that I couldn’t help smiling even as tears blurred my vision. Slipped his little hand into mine and held it to my cheek, and my heart melted as his face split into a smile, all chipmunk cheeks and dimples. He giggled as I caught his face between my hands and peppered it with tiny kisses.  
“Well, isn’t this idyllic,” said Mark, smiling as he entered the room. Watched him set down his attaché case and loosen the knot in his tie before crossing to me and bending to brush his lips against mine. “Hello, darling.” As he drew back, Billy reached up and pressed the palm of his hand against his father’s face. Mark smiled. “And there’s my little man,” he said, scooping Billy into a hug. Billy gurgled contentedly and nestled into the crook of Mark’s arm. Mmm, love watching the pair of them together—the way Mark seems to strike the perfect balance between strength and tenderness.  
“You look tired,” he observed as he sat down beside me on the sofa and settled Billy in my lap again. I nodded. “What’s your mother done to upset you now?”  
In spite of myself, I laughed. “The usual. Pestering me about Christmas, as if I could forget she’s descending on us like an avalanche.”  
Mark wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me to his side. “You know it’s just her way of coping,” he said, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I know,” I sighed. “I’m trying to be patient with her; I really am, but sometimes…” As if on cue, the ringing phone interrupted my sentence.  
“Leave it,” Mark instructed, holding up a hand as I moved to answer it. Saw no point in arguing, so snuggled against him and listened to his side of the conversation.  
“Hello? Ah, Pam. How are you?” He listened for a moment, toying absently with the ends of my hair and smiling to himself. “Yes,” he said. “We’re very much looking forward to it too.” Another pause. “Did she, now? Well, I have to admit it’s a sensible suggestion, but…” Pause as mum interrupted again. “I’ll have a word with her about it, certainly, but listen, Bridget is just about to get the baby up from his nap so we can take him out for a bit. Can I have her give you a ring tomorrow?” Another pause. “Yes, of course. I’ll see to it. Right. We’ll see you tomorrow then.”  
“You’re setting a fine example for your son,” I said, leaning in to peck his cheek. “Lying to your mother-in-law; you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mark Darcy.”  
Mark shrugged. “I wasn’t lying; not about the last bit, anyway. We are going out.”  
I narrowed my eyes. “Where?”  
“Never you mind. I have a plan.” Decided not to argue as Marks plans always v lovely and romantic and perfectly orchestrated in manner of top secret agent, and suspect any time involved even includes calculating approx. how many minutes I’d spend pestering/arguing with him over said plan.  
“What did my mother make you promise?” I asked.  
“Just to try to convince you to put that ridiculous notion of Christmas lunch at a restaurant out of your head. Honestly, Bridget, I give you credit for the suggestion, but can you try to avoid giving your mother a stroke?”  
“It was perfectly logical,” I mumbled.  
“To anyone else, yes; to your mother, you might as well have announced that you were canceling Christmas altogether.”  
“What else did you promise to see to?”  
“Just to make sure Billy is properly wrapped up against the cold, and she included a few words of wisdom reminding me that 60% of the body’s heat is lost through the head.”  
“60% of his body is his head,” I pointed out.  
“All the more reason for her grandmotherly concern,” said Mark. “But come. You need cheering up, and I think I’ve got just the thing.”

\---Later---

  
Really have kindest, sweetest, most loving husband in entire world, with a heart of pure gold and the patience of a saint. Only considering not canceling Christmas entirely because of Mark—and Billy, obvs. Mark’s brilliant scheme, it turned out, involved a visit to Hyde Park’s Winter Wonderland. Made v heroic effort to muster Christmas spirit as we explored the brightly-lit market and ice-forest decorated with frozen sculptures; felt like picture-perfect greeting card family wandering hand-in-hand through magical land of Narnia or similar. Loved seeing Billy all wrapped up and snug in Mark’s arms in manner of baby Eskimo, and couldn’t help smiling as his wide eyes followed the strings of glittering, twinkling lights above his head. Mark lifted him up for a closer look, and my heart went all warm and marshmallowy as his deep laughter mingled with the baby’s giggles. Eventually the frigid air and the lure of hot chocolate beckoned, and with drink in hand, I nestled closer to Mark as we took shelter beneath a decorated gazebo.  
“This was a really lovely idea, Mark.”  
He grinned down at me. “Let it be noted that I had to warm you with hot chocolate first.”  
“Not true,” I protested, daintily running my tongue along the edge of my cup to catch a dribble of whipped cream. “I’m really glad you thought of it.” As I snuggled closer to him, a sudden flurry of snowflakes swirled around the park. Tilting my head up to look at him, I saw, as clearly as the lights reflected in his eyes, the memory of a long-ago snowy kiss. Mark studied me for a moment, one corner of his mouth turning upwards in a smile; then, shifting Billy to one arm, he bent his head and kissed me. The shiver that traveled up my spine had nothing to do with the cold as he gently licked away a drop of chocolate in the corner of my mouth.  
“Look at you, Mark Darcy,” I said a little breathlessly. “Snogging in front of the baby. You should cover his eyes.”  
“On the contrary, I hope he’s taking notes. I want my son to be thoroughly skilled in how to properly execute a nice boy’s kiss.”  
“Oh, Mark.” I linked my arm through his, and we stepped back into the snowy scene of holiday revelers.  
“Oh, look!” I exclaimed suddenly, pointing to the ice-ring across the way, packed with skaters. “Shall we go and have a closer look? For Billy,” I added. “He can’t see properly.”  
Mark smiled. “Of course.” We stood at the edge of the ring and watched skaters whip past us, scarves flapping about their faces. A pair of little boys with matching red hats and coats zig-zagged across the ring, chasing each other in relentless circles. Billy’s wide, inquisitive eyes followed their every move.  
“That’ll be you in a few more years,” said Mark, kissing the top of his son’s head.  
“As long as his father teaches him,” I added.  
“Ah, yes.” Mark chuckled. “I seem to recall that winter sports aren’t precisely your area of expertise.” The giggle his comment evoked caught on the lump in my throat as my eyes fell on a pair of skaters not far off—a father and daughter. The girl, whose blonde pigtails poked out from beneath a blue hat, was laughing as she linked her arm through her father’s. Suddenly remembered myself at that age, small, mittened hands fitting perfectly in Dad’s larger ones as he taught me to skate, spinning me round and round until the trees congealed into a blur of shapes. I remembered the time my foot had slipped and I would have tumbled onto the uneven ice if Dad hadn’t caught me.  
“You’re all right, Poppet,” he’d whispered, holding me to his chest. “I’ve got you. I’ll keep you safe.” Felt tears stinging my cheeks and quickly brushed them away, hoping mark wouldn’t notice. Forgot, of course, that have most observant and detail-oriented husband on entire planet. With his free arm, Mark drew me to his side and just let me rest my head against his shoulder. Love Mark. Billy stretched his arms out, and I found it impossible not to smile as I lifted him from Mark and felt him press his warm, rosy little cheek against mine.  
When arrived home, still felt terribly guilty about coming over all weepy and spoiling picture-perfect family Christmas outing. After putting the baby to sleep, I snuggled up to Mark in bed and laid my head on his chest.  
“Thank you for cheering me up,” I said.  
“I wonder if I succeeded,” he murmured, stroking my cheek.  
I sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil everything. It’s just…”  
Mark cupped my face in his hands. “Bridget, listen. I know how much you miss your father. I miss him too. It isn’t quite the same, I know, but I understand how you’re feeling.”  
“It’s just so unfair!” I cried, my eyes filling with tears again.  
“I know it seems that way,” said Mark, “but you’re forgetting something. You’re not alone. It might feel sometimes as if you are, but you’re not. You have your mother. She loves you… in her own way. You have Billy, and,” he paused, brushing my tears away with the pad of his thumb.  
“I have you,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around him.  
“Well, yes. I thought I’d just point that out, as an afterthought.” He’s right, obvs; should really make concerted effort to be more cheerful. Right. Tomorrow will muster up Christmas spirit and clean entire house while singing Christmas carols in manner of elf. 

23 December

  
10:00 AM: Fuck. Mum. Have officially lost count of the number of times she’s rung in the last three hours and am seriously considering chucking the phone out the nearest window. She insists I tear apart the entire house, top to bottom, in search of a lace tablecloth she insists she gave me that I have no knowledge of owning. Decided, on balance, that had better check all available nooks and crannies in house in concerted effort to diffuse holiday tension. Everything going fine—though failed to locate said tablecloth—until reached the wardrobe in one of the spare bedrooms and attempted to sort through a pile of old table linens that think must have belonged to Mark’s grandmother. Suppose Elaine thrust them on us when we got married, but have absolutely no recollection as have never in fact used them. Linens were all neatly folded on shelf, but as I reached up to retrieve them, they immediately toppled over in manner of large stack of squishy building blocks or similar, and Mark, hearing the commotion, found me sitting in a pile of moth-eaten lace.  
“My God, Bridget, are you all right?”  
“Just fine,” I sniffled. “Everything’s super. It’s all under control.”  
“I can think of several ways to describe how this looks,” said Mark, “and let me assure you, ‘under control’ didn’t make the list.” Saw him struggling to suppress a grin and just wanted to toss entire pile of table linen over his head.  
“If I see you laugh once, Mark Darcy, don’t expect sex until next Christmas.” (In hindsight, suppose really can’t blame him for laughing; must have looked ridiculous, as if had raided Miss Havisham’s attic or something).  
Mark just shrugged and reached out a hand to pull me from the tangle, his brown eyes full of tender, understanding expression in manner of Labrador. Felt insides melting under his gaze and started to sob. “For Heaven’s sake, Bridget.” Mark slid his arms around me and lifted me to my feet. “Whatever you’re mother’s said or done to upset you, it isn’t worth the anxiety. What on Earth is all of this, anyway?”  
“Table linen, I think… or spare material from Miss Havisham’s wedding dress,” I replied. “I thought your mother gave it to us when we got married.”  
Mark gave another shrug. “If she did, this is the first I’ve heard of it. Crikey, but these are hideous. What’s made you take them down in the first place?”  
“My mother,” I grumbled. “She wants a cloth for the table.”  
Mark sighed. “Why do you let your mother put you in such a state?”  
“Mark, you know my mum! You can’t argue with her.”  
“Bridget, you just have to be firm. Your mother… sometimes she can get rather… I think she just… your mother is insane.” In spite of myself, I giggled. “Look, just forget about this, all right?”  
“I can’t, mark! I’ve still got to clean the house, and I’ve not showered, and my hair looks like a bird’s nest and…”  
“And you’re going to drive me completely mad if you don’t stop this.”  
“But how can I?” I insisted. “She’ll just nitpick and criticize and tell me I’m a neglectful wife and a horrible mother and a terrible housekeeper, and it’s just going to make Christmas miserable for everyone!”  
“Bridget, your mother is going to see what she wants to see, whatever you do. The sooner you learn to accept that, the easier you’ll make things for yourself, not to mention for me, because I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. Just stop, breathe, and let everything go, all right?”  
“But…”  
“But nothing. This has to stop. You’re exhausted, Bridget, physically and emotionally, and frankly, so am I. I can’t stand seeing you like this. I’m begging you, please, just step back for a moment and think. Is trying to make everything perfect really worth driving yourself to distraction?”  
“I don’t know,” I whispered.  
Gently Mark placed a finger under my chin and tilted my face up so our eyes met. “Well, I’m just guessing,” he murmured, “but I don’t think it’s what your father would want." Tears filled my eyes, and Mark brushed them away with the pad of his thumb. “I want you to do something for me, all right?” I nodded. “I want you to relax. Just relax. I’m going to go out for a bit, and I’m bringing Billy with me.”  
“But Mark…”  
“Sh, you promised. I know your mother’s train gets in at 5.00. We’ll be back in plenty of time to collect her. We just have some last-minute Christmas shopping to do. I want you to make a cup of tea and take a long bath. When I come back, I expect to see you smiling. That’s non-negotiable.” I nodded again. Mark brushed my cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Good.” Really love husband. Am going to follow his advice and take long, soothing bath with lovely aromatherapy oils in manner of bliss-conjuring meditation guru.

2.30 PM: have absolutely no idea where time went. Had every intention of following Mark’s orders to the letter, but after he left on top-secret Christmas present errand, all mysterious and silent in manner of James Bond, I sat back down in huge fluffy tangle of horrid tablecloths to try to think. Was really quite comfy, and next thing I knew, found self all curled up in center of mess where suppose must have fallen asleep like Christmas mouse or similar. Opened eyes to find Mark standing over me, a very Mark-ish smile playing around the edges of his mouth as he watched me (wonder if he’s finally learned the power of thought vibes. Would serve self right if he turned my own weapon on me).  
“Mark, Hi! You’re back!” I gabbled. “I was just, you know, tidying up a bit—the wardrobe, it got a bit… jumbled. Just thought I’d reorganize.”  
“Ah, getting a head start on next year’s resolutions?” asked Mark, reaching out a hand to pull me to my feet. “I admire your ambition, but why don’t you leave that and come with me?”  
“But Mark, the mess—my mother…” I began to protest.  
“It will still be here tomorrow,” he assured me. “In fact, it will still be here next year. I can almost guarantee it. Come, Billy and I have a surprise for you.”  
“What is it?” I asked, eyes narrowed.  
Mark sighed and raised his eyes to the ceiling in manner of tortured martyr or similar. “It’s a surprise, Bridget,” he said, tugging on my hand and pulling me toward the door.  
Came back downstairs and sat on the sofa, promising Mark not to peek without his permission. Heard mysterious rustling noises upstairs mingled with giggling baby sounds and thought would just sneak back up when Mark reentered.  
“All right, Bridget. You can look now.” Turned round and saw mark descending the stairs, cradling Billy. As he came closer, I noticed Mark had donned his infamous reindeer jumper; then took a closer look at Billy and realized he had on identical baby-sized version.  
“Mark!” I exclaimed, throwing my arms around the both of them. “You two look so precious! How on earth did you manage it?”  
“My mother,” Mark said simply. “She sent it a few days ago; I kept it as a surprise.”  
Immediately scooped Billy up in my arms and spun round the room with him, rubbing my cheek against the soft wool. “Mark, I love this! Thank you!”  
“Hang on, I’m not quite finished yet.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a neatly-wrapped package, which he handed to me as I settled back on the sofa, cuddling Billy in my lap. “Early Christmas gift,” he explained.  
“Is this why you went all mysterious and disappeared earlier?”  
He nodded. “I was going to wait and give it to you on Christmas Day, but, well, now seems like a good moment.” Without further prompting I tore aside the wrapping to reveal a Tiffany jeweler’s box. Lifting the lid, I glimpsed a pair of delicate, heart-shaped earrings. The moment I laid eyes on them, I understood, and tears blurred my vision as I looked up at Mark.  
“To match your necklace,” he murmured, reaching to finger the heart-shaped pendant I always wear. Dad gave it to me when I turned 16, and it’s one of the few pieces of jewelry I really treasure. Suspect that had it not been a gift from Dad, Mark would be slightly jealous—in fact, think he still is because I hardly ever let him buy me jewelry. Not that he wants to shower me with gems as if were sparkly showy trophy wife or similar, but know he does like to spoil me occasionally.  
“I know how important it is to you,” said Mark, tracing his thumb along the edge of the pendant. “I know it reminds you of your dad, and wearing it keeps his memory close. I know nothing will ever replace him, but I thought, if you ever want a reminder that you have two other men in your life who love you more than anything…”  
I swiped at the tears on my cheeks; then reached inside the box. “One for Mark,” I said, fastening them on, “and one for Billy. This is so perfect! I don’t know what to say. It’s just so—so—Oh, Mark!” Suddenly was completely overcome and just launched self at him again, throwing my arms around his neck and kissing him.  
“You’re welcome,” he said, smiling down at me. Wanting in on the action, Billy stretched his arms out for a hug, and I scooped him up and held his chubby baby hands in mine to kiss his little dimpled fingers.  
Mark slid an arm around my waist and pressed a kiss to my temple. “We love you, Bridget.”  
I smiled and pressed my cheek to his. “I love you both too,” I whispered. “With all my heart.”  
Love Mark; love Billy; love Christmas. Feel as if can face anything now… even Mum.

The End

Notes

  
Learn more about Hyde Park's Winter Wonderland [here](http://www.visitlondon.com/things-to-do/event/8696953-winter-wonderland-in-hyde-park)


End file.
